


Stagelights

by milibandsdruidsmile (HillyHale)



Category: Political RPF - UK 20th-21st c.
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boarding School, Alternate Universe - High School, Chaos Ensues, Gen, david is a dancer, ed is a singer, except when the lark rises in the east and the crow crows three times at midnight, i have a bluetooth keyboard now so i don't have to look at what i'm writing, kill me now before i write another thing like the wild the beautiful and the damned, nick is a cellist, talent show, therefore i no longer feel any shame about my work, warnings for quite frequent strong language if that's going to be a problem
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-19
Updated: 2016-09-19
Packaged: 2018-08-16 00:58:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8080537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HillyHale/pseuds/milibandsdruidsmile
Summary: It's time for the talent show at Jeremy Corbyn's Academy for Boys. Three bright young students who  love the arts but hate each other decide to compete for the biggest prize of all: the Corbyn Arts Cup, awarded to the winner of the annual talent show. As I say, chaos ensues.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly feel more terrible about having written this than anyone could possibly feel about reading it.

Mr Corbyn stood in the hollowed-out orchestra pit of the Academy's auditorium and clapped his hands. "Now, then, boys," he said, "I know you're all very excited about these auditions, but please try and control your excitement while other people are on the stage. No vegetables are to be thrown; let us please be refined. Anyone seen or heard exhibiting behaviour unbefittig of a Corbyn Academy boy shall be escorted from the theatre and I will speak to him later. Is that very, very clear? Because I shan't repeat myself."

A murmured chorus of "Yes, Mr Corybn," bubbled out of the stalls.

"Good," said Mr Corbyn, "When each of you has done his audition piece, he should go and sit in the green room. Now, then, without further ado, I call the first act. David Cameron, to the front, please."

David Cameron, dressed  in a leotard and pointe shoes, stepped gracefully onto the stage with his head held high. "David Cameron," he said, "I shall be dancing the waltz from Sleeping Beauty... well, half of the waltz from Sleeping Beauty." He nodded to Stage Left, said, "Track Three, thank you," and, as the music began, started to dance.

From the seats in the dress circle, Ed Miliband pretended not to watch him glide across the stage, his arms outstretched in strong arcs and his legs gracefully and perfectly elongated, no evidence of sickling to be seen.

He had a book on his lap, opened at page thirty-seven, but he wasn't reading it, not really. Every now and then he would glance down and pretend to squint at a paragraph somewhere, but in truth he took no information in; he could not take his eyes off the boy dancing on the stage. And he hated himself for it. He hated Cameron for making him keep looking. How many times had Cameron made fun of his stutter, of his hair ("Have you never seen a comb, Miliband? You look like a badger crossed with a bogbrush,")? And now he was mocking him - he had to be - by dancing so captivatingly beautifully that it was impossible not to watch.

Fuck him, thought Ed. Fuck him sideways, and his bloody stupid friends, too.

The only remotely bearable person lined up to audition was cellist Nick Clegg, but, when Ed turned to look for him, he wasn't there. Where? Ed scouted desperately for him, his druid eyes wide and wild, but he was nowhere to be found.

Well, fuck Nick as well. Fuck the lot of them. He wasn't going to panic, not here. He wasn't going to give Cameron the satisfaction.

Ed swallowed hard, and returned his gaze to the stage, where Cameron was just moving into the final arabesque of the piece he'd spent weeks preparing just for this audition.

Scattered applause broke out, and Ed found himself clapping, too.

"Thank you, David," said Mr Corbyn, "You will hear from the senior leadership team soon. And now, the second audition: Nick Clegg!"

Nick carried his cello onto the stage and waited patiently for one of the stagehands to bring a chair onto the stage for him. He sat down, positioned his cello, and addressed the audience. "Nick Clegg," he said, "I shall be playing 'Once Upon a Time' from Bare: a Pop Opera."

The very first notes rang out of the cello, deep and sweet, but Ed didn't have the good luck to hear anything after the third bar. He was tapped on the shoulder, and felt warm breath on his neck, tainted with the sickly odour of sweets, and he turned around to see Mr Bercoe standing at his right.

"Miliband, Blair and Brown are absent. Go and wait in the wings. You're next."

Ed swallowed hard, got to his feet, and followed Mr Bercoe down the circle steps to the stage door.

Bercoe put a finger to his lips and held the door open for him. "Good luck," he whispered, "And remember to breathe. Deep breaths, and you'll be just fine."

Ed didn't have time to nod before Bercoe pushed him forwards into the wings, and closed the door behind him, leaving him in near total darkness. The only light came from the gaps in the tab curtains, bathing his face and, he was sure, making him look like some kind of theatre ghost.

He stifled a bitter laugh as he considered that he was about to sing a verse of 'Au Font du Temple Saint'. What did that make him, then? The _opera_ ghost. His brother would have a goddamn field day.

So would Cameron.

So would Cameron's mates.

He stepped forwards so that he could see more clearly what was going on on the stage, and he realised that, from here, he could see much more clearly than from the back of the theatre, the lines of concentration on Nick's forehead. Quite beautiful, really, like a marble sculpture. Michelangelo's Nick. Ed hadn't been able to look away from the figures in the last gallery he'd visited with his parents and his brother. That had raised some questions, yes. What kind of questions would be raised if anyone noticed that he couldn't now look away from Nick, either?

Damn it, no, he thought, shaking himself out of his reverie. He was not going to do this, not again. He needed to concentrate; he hadn't been given the chace to warm up properly; he was going to have a voice-cracking episode; he was going to stutter; he was going to choke; he knew it. He just knew it.

 _Deep breaths, and you'll be fine._ Bercoe's words rang in his head, and he took a deep breath. God, he thought, God, he really needed to calm down. It was almost time. Time for his audition.

Ed straightened his back and blew air through pursed lips. It was all going to be all right. He was going to ace this.

Nick's audition piece drew to a close, and he came off the stage following a neat little bow. He brushed past Ed as he passed him in the wings, and whispered a haty, "Sorry. Best of luck to you, Miliband."

Ed thought about thanking him, but then remembered that he'd basically betrayed him earlier by not being there to take his mind off bloody Cameron, nd he scowled. "Thank you," he practically snarled, "But I don't need it."

Nick looked taken aback, but said nothing, only patted Ed's shoulder and then disappeared into the green room.

Ed was alone once more, and now was his moment.

He took another deep breath, and headed out onto the stage, squinting under the stagelights.

Upon reaching Stage Center, he cleared his throat, and projected, "Ed Miliband. I'll be singing 'Au Font du Temple Saint' from the Pearlfishers".  With his hands folded behind his back, he straghtened his spine, inhaled, and began to sing.

After the first note, he remembered nothing, and did not come back to himself until he was seated on a sofa in the green room, alone in there with Cameron and Clegg.                  

**Author's Note:**

> *Nick Clegg voice* I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry.  
> More soon if I can live with myself long enough to write another chapter.


End file.
